Social media influencer Mia Bell transitions cold turkey to real life, unaware that a fan’s sister takes over her account to save her sister, who believes in Mia. Harms leads her troubled characters to a fated collision in order to eventually find balance in their lives. This story is a brilliant look at how powerful social media can be, and the expectations of followers, as well as the integrity (or lack) of those they follow. Though this book feels like a quick, easy read, it delves deep enough into the dangers to show that the lives of real people are affected by seemingly casual posting. It also shows the connections that can be made online and IRL. I highly recommend this book and pretty much anything written by Harms. Fans of Ann Garvin and Kelly Simmons will appreciate her style. I was fortunate to receive a copy of this wonderful story from the publisher Lake Union Publishing through NetGalley.
Journalist Rory Garcia struggles in her relationship and her career, seeking stability in both. On her way to cover a protest, she is thwarted by roadblocks, yet she finds herself investing in a story that calls to her despite her skepticism of its veracity. Kate and Ian return in their friend Dee’s tale to Rory of their time-bending romance, as they make their way to their daughter Hope’s graduation, valedictorian of a special class, those born on or close to 9/11. Impellizzeri moves her characters in and out of time and dimensions and lives carefully and credibly, so that by the end, Dear Reader is fully satisfied by not only the romance at the crux of the tale, but by all the connections and possibilities. I received a digital copy of this wonderful story from the author for an honest review. Although I was a bit confused throughout the story, the ending pulled it all together beautifully and left me with a book hangover.
After escaping an abusive husband of an arranged marriage, Lakshmi has curated a niche life as a henna artist and herbalist, carefully balancing her needs with the desires of her wealthy, high caste clients. Until…her ex-husband brings to her a sister Lakshmi didn’t know existed, along with the information that both of their parents are dead. A sister who can topple her meticulously constructed life, simply by being her naive, adventurous self. Joshi has created a picture of a precarious position within society that is specific to someone who provides a service that’s both decorative and healing, desired for its aesthetics and cultural significance. Although accepted into higher society, Lakshmi is still considered a servant to the most influential of her clients, and thereby afforded no protection against her sister’s impetuous actions. Not only has the author provided a compelling tale, but she has included a glossary of hindi words and a history of henna artistry. I was fortunate to receive a digital copy of this beautiful novel from the publisher Mira Books through NetGalley.
EXCERPT
Prologue
September
1955
Ajar,
State of Uttar Pradesh, India
Her
feet step lightly on the hard earth, calloused soles insensible to
the tiny pebbles and caked mud along the riverbank. On her head she
balances a mutki,
the same earthenware jug she uses to carry water from the well every
day. Today, instead of water, the girl is carrying everything she
owns: a second petticoat and blouse, her mother’s wedding sari, The
Tales of Krishna
her father used to read to her—the pages fabric-soft from years of
handling—and the letter that arrived from Jaipur earlier this
morning.
When
she hears the voices of the village women in the distance, the girl
hesitates. The gossip-eaters are chatting, telling stories, laughing,
as they wash saris, vests, petticoats and dhotis.
But when they spot her, she knows they will stop to stare or spit at
the ground, imploring God to protect them from the Bad Luck Girl. She
reminds herself of the letter, safe inside the mutki,
and thinks: Let
them. It will be the last time.
Yesterday,
the women were haranguing the Headman: why
is the Bad Luck Girl still living in the schoolteacher’s hut when
we need it for the new schoolmaster?
Afraid to make a sound for fear they would come inside and pull her
out by her hair, the girl had remained perfectly still within the
four mud walls. There was no one to protect her now. Last week, her
mother’s body had been burned along with the bones of other dead
animals, the funeral pyre of the poor. Her father, the former
schoolteacher, had abandoned them six months ago, and, shortly after,
he drowned in a shallow pool of water along the riverbank, so drunk
he likely hadn’t felt the sting of death.
Every
day for the past week, the girl had lay in wait on the outskirts of
the village for the postman, who cycled in sporadically from the
neighboring village. This morning, as soon as she spotted him, she
darted out from her hiding place, startling him, and asked if there
were any letters for her family. He had frowned and bit his cheek,
his rheumy eyes considering her through his thick glasses. She could
tell he felt sorry for her, but he was also peeved—she was asking
for something only the Headman should receive. But she held his gaze
without blinking. When he finally handed over the thick onionskin
envelope addressed to her parents, he did so hastily, avoiding her
eyes and pedaling away as quickly as he could.
Now,
standing tall, her shoulders back, she strolls past the women at the
riverbank. They glare at her. She can feel her heart flutter wildly
in her breast, but she passes, straight as sugar cane, mutki
on her head, as if she is going to the farmers well, two miles
farther from the village, the only well she is allowed to use.
The
gossip-eaters no longer whisper but shout to one another:
There
goes the Bad Luck Girl! The year she was born, locusts ate the wheat!
Her older sister deserted her husband, never to be seen again!
Shameless! That same year her mother went blind! And her father
turned to drink! Disgraceful! Even the girl’s coloring is suspect.
Only Angreji-walli
have blue eyes. Does she even belong to us? To this village?
The
girl has often wondered about this older sister they talk about. The
one whose face she sees only as a shadow in her dreams, whose
existence her parents have never acknowledged. The gossip-eaters say
she left the village thirteen years ago. Why? Where did she go? How
did she escape a place where the gossip-eaters watch your every move?
Did she leave in the dead of night when the cows and goats were
asleep? They say she stole money, but no one in the village has any
money. How did she feed herself? Some say she dressed as a man so she
wouldn’t be stopped on the road. Others say she ran off with a
circus boy and was living as a nautch
girl, dancing in the Pleasure District miles away in Agra.
Three
days ago, old man Munchi with the game leg—her only friend in the
village—warned her that if she didn’t vacate her hut, the Headman
would insist she marry a widowed farmer or demand she leave the
village.
“There
is nothing here for you now,” Munchiji had said. But how could she
leave—a thirteen-year-old orphan girl with no family or money?
Munchiji
said, “Have courage, bheti.” He told her where to find her
brother-in-law, the husband her older sister had abandoned all those
years ago, in a nearby village. Perhaps he could help her find her
sister.
“Why
can’t I stay with you?”she
had asked.
“It
would not be proper,”the
old manreplied
gently. He made his living painting images on the skeletons of peepal
leaves.To
console her, he’d given her a painting. Angry, she’d almost
thrown it back at him until she saw that the image was of Lord
Krishna, feeding a mango to his consort Radha, her namesake. It was
the most beautiful gift she had ever received.
Radha
slows as she approaches the village threshing ground. Four yoked
bulls walk in circles around a large flat stone, grinding wheat.
Prem,
who cares for the bulls, is sitting with his back against the hut,
asleep. Quietly, she hurries past him to the narrow path that leads
to Ganesh-ji’s temple. The shrine has a slender opening and,
inside, a statue of Lord Ganesh. Gifts are arranged around the
Elephant God’s feet: a young coconut, marigolds, a small pot of
ghee, slices of mango. A cone of sandalwood incense releases a
languid curl of smoke.
The
girl lays Munchiji’s
painting of Krishna in front of Ganesh-ji,
the Remover of All Obstacles, and begs him to remove the curse of The
Bad Luck Girl.
By
the time she reaches her brother-in-law’s village ten miles to the
West, it is late afternoon and the sun has moved closer to the
horizon. She is sweating through her cotton blouse. Her feet and
ankles are dusty; her mouth dry.
She
is cautious, entering the village. She crouches in shrubs and hides
behind trees. She knows an alone girl will not be treated kindly. She
searches for a man who looks like the one Munchiji described.
She
sees him. There. Squatting under the banyan tree, facing her. Her
brother-in-law.
He
has thick, oily, coal-black hair. A long, bumpy scar snakes from his
bottom lip to his chin. He is not young but neither is he old. His
bush-shirt
is spotted with curry and his dhoti
is
stained with dust.
Then
she notices the woman squatting in the dirt in front of the man. She
is supporting her elbow with one hand, her forearm dangling at an
unnatural angle. Her head is completely covered with her pallu,
and she is talking to the man in a quiet whisper. Radha watches,
wondering if her brother-in-law has taken another wife.
She
picks up a small stone and throws it at him. She misses. The second
time, she hits him in the thigh, but he merely flicks his hand, as if
swatting away an insect. He is listening intently to the woman. Radha
throws more pebbles, managing to hit him several times. At last, he
lifts his head and looks around him.
Radha
steps into the clearing so he can see her.
His
eyes widen, as if he is looking at a ghost. He says, “Lakshmi?”
Alka Joshi is a graduate of Stanford University and received her M.F.A. from the California College of the Arts. She has worked as an advertising copywriter, a marketing consultant, and an illustrator. Alka was born in India, in the state of Rajasthan. Her family came to the United States when she was nine, and she now lives on California’s Monterey Peninsula with her husband and two misbehaving pups. The Henna Artist is her first novel. Visit her website and blog at thehennaartist.com
Annie has had it with people, declaring that she is accepting no new people into her life after her fiance moved to Paris to find himself, her career stalled due to a sexual harassment incident, and her closest friends have become “concerned.” Told in epistolary style through Annie’s journal and email correspondence, Dear Reader is privy to Annie’s private thoughts—her frustrations and confusions—as she stumbles into new friendships despite her declaration. Pagán infuses humor into the story as Annie faces challenging decisions. Fans of Ann Garvin and Sonali Dev will appreciate Pagán’s delightfully flawed characters and realistic storyline which offers no clear-cut answers to life’s hard questions. I was fortunate to receive a digital copy of this wonderful novel by one of my favorite authors from the publisher Lake Union Publishing through NetGalley for an honest review.
Fans of Elizabeth Strout can assuredly pick up a new novel by her without checking the summary, especially if it’s once again (see what I did there…) about her most interesting character Olive Kitteridge. Told from the perspectives of her fellow townspeople whose lives intersect with hers in a profound way, as well as from her own, it’s reminiscent of Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson (way back in the day, but such a classic work), providing nuances not accessible from a single point of view, especially one as focused as Olive’s. Endearing she is not, but fascinating she is, so complex and surprisingly wise, even compassionate, in unexpected ways—Olive has her lovers and haters; no one is on the fence about this lady. This book could stand on its own, though it is definitely buttressed by its predecessor Olive Kitteridge. Unfortunately for OK’s fans, this may be her swan song. Dismayed at the fast forwarding of the latter half of the book, this Dear Reader saw the end coming too soon, losing Strout a precious star. I received a digital copy of this story from one of my favorite authors from the publisher Random House through NetGalley.
Maggie feels something imminently dangerous coming to her daughter Emma, who just headed off on her first year of college. When police come to her door one evening, she knows her premonition has come to fruition. The widow of a police detective, Maggie conducts her own investigation into her daughter’s disappearance, with all new information obscuring who she believed her daughter to be. Simmons writes a good mystery, replete with complex family dynamics, secrets spilling out all over, and a storyline that builds until it bursts and everything makes sense. Fans of Liane Moriarty, Diane Chamberlain, and Kerry Anne King will appreciate Simmons’ writing style and storytelling brilliance. I was fortunate to receive a digital copy of the book by one of my favorite authors from the publisher Sourcebook Landmark through NetGalley.
Betsy’s sister, the good sister, her parents’ favorite, died last year, and her mother has spiraled down into a deep depression, refusing help and alienating Betsy and her father. They struggle along until a revelation rips into the family. Rouda carefully extracts truth from underneath appearances and flays expectations. Fans of Liane Moriarty and Diane Chamberlain will appreciate this story and Rouda’s style. I was fortunate to receive a copy of this wonderful story from Graydon House through NetGalley.
Rachel North finds herself in a precarious situation, interning for Assistant DA Martha Gardiner, the nemesis of her defense lawyer husband Jack Kirkland, who warns his wife about the woman’s sketchy tactics to win at all costs. Gardiner in turn hints to Rachel of her husband’s ulterior motives, placing Rachel in a quandary as to whom she can trust. Gardiner then thrusts her into a cold case, the death of a young woman who worked under Rachel in her previous incarnation as a Senator’s Assistant. Alternating between the present and the past, Phillipi Ryan develops an intriguing, complex tale of trust, relationships, and marriage, and how a person’s breaking point can lead to murder. Fans of Andrea Bartz’ “The Lost Night” and Megan Goldin’s “The Escape Room” will appreciate the writing style and the wild ride to the finish. I was fortunate to receive a digital copy of this compelling murder mystery from the publisher through NetGalley.
On the night Cassie Hanwell received the Austin Fire Department’s
Valor Award—the youngest and first female—for saving children
from a sinking school bus, the unexpected presenter takes her back to
the night that formed her opinion of love and family. Her award night
again changes her life drastically, returning her reluctantly to
family and more than one potential disaster. Center’s skills draw
readers into the lives of her complex and deeply flawed characters,
causing at least this reviewer to gasp out loud multiple times at
wondrous and astonishing events. She brings tears with realistic
emotional turmoil and unforeseen joy. Fans of Ann Garvin, Camille
Pagan, and Liane Moriarty will appreciate Center’s writing style,
sense of humor, and credible, relatable characters. I was fortunate
to receive a digital copy from the publisher through NetGalley.
Tell
me about your writing process: schedule, environment, strategies,
inspirations, etc.
Calling
what I do a process makes it sound far more organized than it
actually is. What I really do that creates success for me is a two
step process: I meditate, and I write a small amount every day.
Reality means I’m usually writing a lot most days, but the trick is
I promise myself I can quit any time after the first, say, five
hundred words. I never want to quit after five hundred words.
As
for environment, I used to be finicky and say it had to be a certain
level of quiet or comfort, or there had to be this and that to write.
Now I write wherever I am, so long as there’s no one talking to me.
I can edit with a room full of children cavorting around me and
begging for bananas on toast, but for the writing itself, I still
need to be left alone.
Walk
me through your publishing process, from final draft to final
product, including who does what when and what marketing you do.
I
don’t have a final draft. I have the best I can do in the time I
have, and that is what goes to the publisher, and that is what they
copyedit and proof and eventually print. But I am still editing in my
mind for all eternity. When I read aloud from my work at events, I
edit it as I go. So readers are hearing the best version of the book
for that day in that moment. I guess I could never be my own audio
narrator!
As
for marketing, I try to be very flexible about this. My real job is
writing and that’s how I prioritize, but I am proud of my work and
want to share it. As such, I spend most of my “marketing” time
chatting with excellent and active readers. I try to be open about
my successes and my foibles in the world with anyone who asks, and I
talk about my favorite books in the moment so that the readers who
follow me never run out of good books.
Describe
your support system—online and IRL; who are your biggest
cheerleaders—and how did you become a Tall Poppy?
When
I talk about authorial support (outside my immediate family and dear
friends who support me because they love me, books or no,) I am
talking almost exclusively about the Tall Poppies. This is a
marketing collective in the main, but the side effect is a network of
professional colleagues who believe in the same principles as I do.
Namely, we all believe, with grace and gratitude, that there is room
at the top, and we mean to get everyone there together. We only see
each other in real life once a year, so the rest of the time, we are
connecting virtually, and I think that is probably one of the only
reasons I don’t throw my phone off a cliff.
How
does your life influence your writing and vice versa?
They
are inextricable. This is the difference between my job and most
other professions. I cannot leave my writing behind when I “come
home” from work, and I do not pretend that what is happening in my
life doesn’t shape my writing. When I have a problem to work out,
or a question about life, or a hearts desire, I write it into a book.
That said, I don’t write about people I know. Even if I tried, my
characters wouldn’t stand for it. They are utterly themselves.
What
do you love
most about your creativity?
While
I’m very very grateful to be able to write books for a living, I do
not quite understand how it came to pass that the creative life won
out over my pragmatism. I did well in my physics and calc classes in
college and probably would have been just as happy in any creative
problem solving profession. The thought of a vested retirement plan
makes my heart sing. Also, I always thought it would be great to be a
mail carrier.
But
here I am writing away, and my favorite thing about it is that even
though I am a comic writer, according to my reviews, I have no
concept of what it is that I write that is so funny. I just write the
most emotionally honest stories I can manage, and then my editors
come back to me with all these LOL comments and I think, oh, ok,
great. In real life this is very weird because when I say something
that comes out funny, I get really excited and say stuff like, “Oh!
That was
funny!” or laugh at my own jokes.
That
anyone hangs out with me at all is the real comedy.
